Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

It felt wrong to pull such a delicate fabric over my sweat-encrusted skin. To surround myself in silken finery after days of wearing a stiff, oversize man’s jumpsuit. My hair was too rank, my nails too dirty. A jail cell made the filth easier to take. But this, a visit to the past, a note of refinement amid the abyss…

“Mom? Let me.”

I’d been trying to fasten the complicated tie system at the waist of the wrap shirt, but my fingers were shaking too badly. Now Ashlyn brushed my hands away and took over working the knots.

I admired her dexterity as much as I admired her bravery. We had screwed up, obviously. A family of three absolute fuckups. And yet, each of us, in our own way, was holding up. My fifteen-year-old, highly privileged, officially sexually active daughter had not collapsed. She was not sobbing hysterically or shutting down or whining constantly. She was functioning. We were all functioning.

We would get through this, I told myself. We’d survive, we’d return home and we would…

We would forge on. We’d forgive, we’d forget. That’s what families did, right? Muddled through in full, imperfect glory.

Ashlyn and I finished our preparations. Her top in place, my top in place. We moved to the spot Radar indicated on the dais, then Z handed me a newspaper, the Sunday edition. I tucked it beneath my arm as he gave each of us a one-page script. He had the piece of paper flipped over, blank side up.

Now he said, “On the count of three, Radar will start filming. You will each start reading, alternating line by line, Ashlyn going first. Remember, no adlibbing, no straying from the script, or the other one pays the price.”

My first tingle of apprehension.

“One.”

Why wouldn’t he let us preview the script?

“Two.”

Why the need to threaten us with Mick?

“Three.”

Radar nodded his head. We flipped over our pages and once again, my heart sank in my chest.

“MY NAME IS ASHLYN DENBE,” my daughter whispered. In the background, Z scowled at her, cupping his hand around her ear.

“My name is Libby Denbe,” I filled in, my voice louder, as he’d indicated.

Ashlyn cleared her throat. “Today is Sunday.”

I provided the date, then, following the note from the script, hastily unfolded the newspaper and flashed the front page.

“We are here with my father, Justin Denbe,” my daughter intoned.

“To secure our freedom,” I read, “you must wire nine million dollars to the following account.” I read off a long list of numbers. The script instructed me to repeat. I licked my lips, and repeated.

“Tomorrow, three P.M., eastern standard time, we will call you,” my daughter recited.

“On Justin Denbe’s iPhone,” I read. “The call will be in FaceTime. You’ll be able to see us. We’ll be able to see you.”

“You will verify that we are alive,” Ashlyn said. Her eyes flew up; she glanced at me almost eagerly.

“You will then have ten minutes to wire the money.”

“Once the full payment is received,” Ashlyn read, “we will provide the address of the location where we can be retrieved unharmed.”

“By three eleven P.M.,” I said, “if the full nine million dollars has not been successfully wired to the account provided…”

“The first member of our family…” Ashlyn paused, glanced up. Z stared at her hard, both willing the words from her mouth and reminding her sternly of the consequences if she failed to utter them. “The first member of our family will be killed,” Ashlyn whispered.

“To be selected at random,” I intoned, my voice equally quiet.

“There will be no negotiation.”

“No additional contact.”

“The money will be received,” Ashlyn murmured.

“Or one by one, we will die,” I finished.

“Pay the money,” Ashlyn read flatly.

“Keep us alive.” Did my voice sound pleading?

“Jazz,” Ashlyn said.

I frowned, spotted the word on my own script. “Jazz,” I repeated.

Then, just like that, Radar lowered his phone and the show was over.

Ashlyn and I didn’t talk again. We retreated to the corner of the room, peeling off the clothes that were once ours and now felt as if they belonged to other people from another life.

Radar had exited immediately. Probably to deliver the short video. E-mail it? I wasn’t a techie, but he seemed to know what he was doing.

Z waited for us beside the door, hands in the front pockets of his black cargo pants. He didn’t attempt to sneak glances as we changed, seeming immune to our presence. Of our captors, he was the one I could least figure out. Clearly, he was the leader of this operation. The brains who was equally respected for his brawn.

Former military. Current private mercenary? The kind of man who would do whatever, hurt whomever, as long as the money was good? Kidnap a family, beat a husband, terrify a wife and teenage daughter?

As of this moment, was he double-dipping? Receiving payment from whomever had wanted us taken, while also attempting to earn an additional nine million in ransom funds?

Or, would that be unethical? A break in some mercenary code?

There was a thought there. A kernel of an idea I struggled to hold. Given what we knew thus far—the locked front door, the insider knowledge of our routine—we’d assumed someone we knew must’ve hired Z and his team to take us. Except, we’d never figured out who or why. Which brought up the logical question, would this same person who was willing to pay for us to disappear really want us returned home again, safe and sound? The ransom exchange made sense for Z, Radar and Mick, each of whom stood to receive millions of dollars. But what about the mystery mastermind? What did he get out of all of this?

Surely it had to be in his best interest for us to never be found alive. Which might explain the current take-it-or-leave-it approach to the ransom demands. Certainly, the script that Ashlyn and I had just read hadn’t allowed any room for negotiation, good faith exchanges or counteroffers. Just pay nine million dollars by 3:00 P.M. tomorrow, or members of the Denbe family will start turning up dead.

It was as if Z was waiting for an excuse to kill us.

Maybe because that was still his overarching charge, the terms of the first contract. And as strange as it sounded, Z struck me as the ethical type. A man as good as his word. The kind of guy who made a promise, then kept it.

I shivered, and once I started, it was hard to stop.

Twenty-four hours, I thought.

Twenty-four hours and then either a miracle would occur, and we’d find ourselves safely back in our own home.

Or, we were as good as dead.

Chapter 31

WYATT WAS NOT HAPPY. His fellow investigators were not happy. He and Tessa had returned to the Denbes’ Boston town house upon receiving word of fresh contact. A short video of Libby and Ashlyn Denbe had been e-mailed to the life insurance company approximately thirty minutes ago. Now they were all once more huddled in the back of the FBI’s mobile command center staring at the computer screen. The video had just ended. Special Agent Hawkes hit replay. Again, then again. None of the subsequent viewings improved any of their moods.

No contact information for follow-up questions. No room for renegotiating the ransom terms or demanding a good-faith gesture, such as the release of the youngest family member. Just a flat-out exchange. Pay the money or pick up the bodies.

“How do we know they won’t kill the Denbes the second after we wire the money?” Nicole scowled. She was twirling a loose strand of blond hair around her finger, a nervous habit Wyatt knew she hated, but couldn’t break.

“We don’t,” her fellow FBI agent, Hawkes, countered. “Sounds like the whole exchange happens long distance. We pay, the Denbes provide an address, then we get to rescue them.”